It felt like a war zone. The helicopter blades whipped the grass back and forth like noodles as it approached and readied itself for landing not far from us. I bent forward and cupped the baby with my arms, desperately trying to shield him from the gale. The wind generated by the chopper was filled with dirt and debris, and it lashed at us as if a dust storm had just spontaneously kicked up.
There was a big logo splashed across the side of the chopper, an outline of a male impala with its devilishly spiraled horns with “South Africa National Parks” written underneath. As soon as it touched ground, several men in green-and-tan camouflaged fatigues jumped out. The men carried long rifles and wore automatic pistols on their hips. They sported big, bulky vests and chest packs brimming with hi
